Borrowed Angel

by Heather Graham

  “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “No ghost.”

  Her fear faded. His presence and his nearness were overwhelming. His hands fell from her shoulders, but he stayed there before her. They were very close again. He brushed her cheek with his knuckles. He reached out and picked up the emerald pendant that lay between her breasts. His fingers brushed her flesh, and sparks of fire and life seemed to leap in her. He studied the stone, and then his eyes rose to hers. “No insult intended, Miss Dane. You do wear emeralds—and the primitive earth—very, very well.” His smile took away any edge to the words. He laid the stone against her, and again she felt the brush of his fingers, and a hunger, unlike anything she had ever known, swept mercilessly through her.

  “I’m going to shower,” he said huskily, turning away from her and picking up a candle.

  “But you haven’t any electricity. It’ll be freezing,” she murmured.

  “I know,” he replied pleasantly enough. “Excuse me. I don’t wear hamburger meat and salad that well.”

  He disappeared down the hall. She realized that he was going to the room where she had awakened. It was his room. It was his shower.

  She wandered into the living room and sat and realized that her teeth were chattering. She didn’t know anything about him.

  She wanted him.

  She had never felt this way, so swiftly and so completely.

  Ashley hugged her knees to her chest. For the life that she had led, she was innocent in many ways. She had always imagined that she would fall deeply in love, that she would marry, that she would have children. But she had always been careful, not stupid. She enjoyed the company of men, and she dated. But she hadn’t become involved. She had been close to Tara, and she had seen the horror of her friend’s involvement with Tine. Then she had been stunned to realize that her trusted employer would have gladly killed them all to better himself. Men were not proving to be very trustworthy, not in her world. If it hadn’t been for Harrison Mosby, she wouldn’t be here now.

  She smiled. There was Rafe. She had liked him from the beginning, but she had known that Rafe had been for Tara and Tara had been for Rafe. They were both her very dear friends.

  And it was thanks to them that she was stuck here in this storm with Eric Hawk.

  She groaned and paced the floor. She had never been more miserable. She kept telling herself that Eric couldn’t be a murderer—but she had seen a murder, hadn’t she? Or had she gone absolutely insane out there?

  Ashley suddenly stood dead still.

  The rain had stopped. The wind had stopped.

  It was over! she thought. The storm was over!

  Ashley inhaled, thinking that she owed Eric some thanks and an explanation. But perhaps she owed herself more. She was in a situation that she couldn’t control. She was terrified, and she was excited beyond belief. It was a dangerous brew, an explosive combination.

  She wanted him.

  She needed desperately to be away.

  She didn’t even have any clothing! she reminded herself.

  That didn’t matter. Surely he had a car or some other vehicle outside. She would borrow it. She would send him reimbursement later. And a thank-you note for carrying her out of the swamp.

  But first she had to escape from him.

  She started for the door and then remembered the earrings and bracelet. Rafe and Tara wouldn’t blame her if they never got the jewels back. Rafe always cared for people more than he did for things, even if those things were priceless emeralds. But she was responsible for them. It would take her only two seconds to go back to the room and retrieve them.

  Ashley ran along the hallway and entered the room. She could hear the shower going strong. She hurried over to the side table and picked up the bracelet, slipping it over her wrist. She put on the earrings, then paused.

  There was a framed picture on the side table. She picked it up. Straining her eyes in the poor light, she saw there were four people in the picture, including a beautiful, petite blond woman who smiled broadly. She seemed to be in Eric’s arms. Then Ashley realized that it wasn’t Eric but a man who looked just like him. A brother or a cousin—they had to be related to look so much alike.

  The other man in the picture was Eric. He was with a beautiful and exotic woman, with hair so dark it seemed to be a cobalt hue, so sleek that it was a satin blanket hanging over her shoulders. Her eyes were black too, and her features were striking. She was a full-blooded Indian, Ashley thought, and looked stunning with the pride in her eyes and a gentle, knowing curve to her smile. She was slim and elegant, full of laughter and full of love.

  Ashley set the picture down suddenly as if it were hot. She felt she had intruded upon something. It wasn’t the woman’s smile that had gotten to her; it was Eric’s.

  He looked so different in the picture. No cynicism shadowed his eyes. He smiled with ease, with warmth, with an abundance of love, as the woman did.

  Who was the woman? Ashley wondered. And why did the picture make her feel like crying? It was none of her concern.

  She turned and fled from the room. It couldn’t be any of her affair. She hated the swamp and the shoot was done. If the storm was truly over, she could fly home. At the moment, New York City, as crowded, dusty, dirty and crime-laden as it might be, seemed a haven of safety.

  When she returned to the living room she glanced around for a set of keys but didn’t see any. If he had a car, she reasoned, he probably left his keys in it. Who would come out here to steal a car?

  The front door, however, was locked. There were two dead bolts on it, and both had been locked. She opened them and stepped outside, carefully closing the door behind her.

  Everything was so deathly still.

  She looked around, amazed at the destruction.

  If Eric had a lawn or a car, she couldn’t see it. Nor could she tell if there were canals nearby, or where there might be trees and where there might be saw grass. The whole panorama before her was green. Palm fronds and branches lay over everything and were ankle-deep on the porch where she stood several steps off the ground.

  She wasn’t going anywhere, she thought bleakly. Nowhere at all.

  Suddenly she felt the breeze pick up. Her hair rose and curled around her face. She looked out at the horizon. A bolt of lightning suddenly zigzagged in a long and furious streak across the sky.

  It was like a signal to the tempest. The wind rose in a shrill cry; the cold rain came back in an instant, beating upon her. Amazed, Ashley whirled around to go back into the house.

  She didn’t make it. The wind caught her at the midriff and pulled her down like icy hands. She screamed as she fell on top of the leaves and fronds at the base of the steps. She tried to rise, but the wind was too strong. It swept her around again, pulling her farther and farther from the house. She saw a tree and clung to it. The wind roared as if it had life, as if it had a murderous streak. Like an evil demon, it sought to tear her away from the tree and throw her out into the tempest.

  She could scarcely hang on. Her fingers were frozen and almost numb. They would lose their grip any second, she thought. She couldn’t hold on any longer.

  She cast back her head and started to scream.

  “Fool!”

  Suddenly warmth surrounded her. Something hard and determined pressed against her back, and then strong arms were around her. She tried to turn, but she couldn’t fight the force of the wind, or of the man.

  “Come on!” His voice rose in command over the fury of the storm. “When I say move, move!”

  She nodded, blinded by her sopping hair. His fingers curled over hers and he tugged her. “Now!”

  She tried hard to follow him. But when she turned, her foot caught in a root, and she stumbled, falling with a scream. He caught her and lifted her into his arms. He braced himself and fought against the wind, step by step, heading back toward the house. They reached the porch. He staggered, then staggered up. He opened the
door quickly, dropped her on the floor and caught the door before it could disappear into the grasping fingers of the wind. He slid both bolts. Then he fell down to the floor beside her, gasping for breath, soaked to the bone.

  They both lay on their backs, panting. Only then did Ashley realize that he was wearing nothing but a big white towel wrapped around his hips. The wind had nearly managed to strip it away.

  He turned to her. She saw the whole slick breadth of his chest, hairless and coppery and sinewed with muscle. She saw the furious set of his jaw and the cold green sizzle in his eyes. He reached out for her throat, and if she’d had the least bit of energy left she would have screamed.

  “No!” she murmured. He meant to kill her, she was certain.

  His fingers just lay against her flesh. “You are the worst featherbrain I have ever met in my entire life!” he thundered. His fingers crawled over her shoulder and he shook her with a vengeance. “Make a move toward that door again and I will scalp you! I’ll skin you alive!”

  He released her and stood with agility. He nearly lost the towel but it didn’t disturb him. He wrenched it into place, then turned back to her, ready to yell again.

  His words died on his lips.

  Ashley realized that once again she was barely clad. Her shirt was soaked and torn open, revealing her breasts, and it had risen up to her hips.

  She was clad in practically nothing at all….

  Except for her Tyler jewels and the primitive earth.

  CHAPTER 3

  “I’ll say one thing for you,” Eric muttered darkly.

  “What’s that?” she murmured nervously, trying to pull down the tails of the sodden shirt.

  His eyes fell upon her. “You’re a beautiful featherbrain. Come on, let me help you.” He reached down to her. She hesitated, then accepted his hand.

  “I am not a featherbrain,” she told him. “I have a college degree. I worked hard for it, too.” What difference did it make? she wondered. She had tried to leave; she had failed. She was stuck in here with a man who might well be a killer.

  “You could have fooled me. That was one of the most idiotic stunts I’ve ever seen.”

  “The storm had stopped.”

  “That was the eye! It hasn’t stopped at all.”

  “Well, I know that now,” she retorted.

  He left her standing there, went down the hallway and returned with a handful of towels. He tossed her one, watching her with unabashed curiosity.

  “Why?” he demanded.

  “Why what?”

  “Why would you be so desperate to get out of here that you would run barefoot and half naked right back into the storm?”

  “I thought that the storm was over!” Ashley insisted, toweling her hair. He was walking around her in his soaked towel, heedless of the water that dripped to the floor. He circled her, like an inquisitor.

  “But you were still willing to take off—barefoot—into the swamp,” he said sharply.

  Like a featherbrain, she thought resentfully. She didn’t know if she wanted to hit him or run. She wasn’t sure at all if the greatest danger lay in the storm—or in the man. “No,” she said flatly. “I was planning—”

  “Oh, wonderful!” he interrupted her, throwing his hands up in the air. “You wanted to steal my car.”

  Ashley looked at him, inhaling deeply for courage. Custer, she was certain, had not faced such a menace at the battle of Little Bighorn. This man was furious with her; he was like a keg of dynamite with a slow fuse. He crossed his arms over his chest. She inhaled again.

  “I didn’t mean to steal your car.”

  “Excuse me. You were going to take my car.”

  “I told you—”

  “No, you haven’t told me anything at all, have you?”

  Her own temper soared and snapped, and no desperate reminder that he might be a murderer could do anything to control it. She exploded with a sound of fury, throwing her towel down on the ground and setting her hands on her hips. “I have to get out of here! Don’t you understand that? You stop acting like a damned DA and leave me alone! Do you understand?”

  “Do I understand.” His black brows shot up in astonishment. “Listen, lady, I dragged you out of the swamp—twice. Now I want a few explanations.”

  He was walking toward her, and she found herself backing away, heading toward the kitchen. She turned suddenly and fled. When she reached the kitchen, she realized that he was behind her. She felt in the cold soapy water for the knife he had tossed there and faced him, braced against the sink, the knife raised high.

  He had stopped short before her. He watched the knife not with fear, but with respect. He stared at her as if convinced that she was not a featherbrain but a complete maniac.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” he asked her calmly.

  “Just stay away from me!” she insisted.

  “You should never, never pull out a weapon unless you intend to use it,” he warned her.

  “Don’t push me,” she advised him.

  “Put it down and tell me what the hell is going on.”

  “I—I can’t.”

  He smiled and leaned back against the counter, watching her. “The storm could go on for another day. It could sit right on top of us and go on for two days, even three. The roads will be impassable for at least a week, I imagine. Even the canals will be clogged and swollen and dangerous. Can you hold that knife on me that long?”

  No, of course she couldn’t, and it had been foolish to dive for it, but he had scared her so thoroughly. She bit her lower lip, trying not to panic, trying to convince herself once again that he couldn’t be the murderer.

  She thought about it too long. One second he was as still as the calm of the storm, then the next second he was in motion, reaching for her wrist with the speed of lightning. She screamed as he caught hold of her, snapping her hand so that the knife went flying down to the floor where it clattered and glittered. She was pulled hard against him and her eyes widened and she gasped with shock—he had lost his towel in the maneuvering.

  If he noticed, he gave his own state of undress no heed.

  “Talk to me,” he told her.

  “I can’t.”

  “You’d best!”

  His breath warmed her cheek, and the heat and vibrant strength of the length of his body seemed to touch her with flames. She was terrified; she could barely stand, and she was painfully aware of every inch of him. His fingers were iron around her wrists. She even felt the pulse of his heart and had to wonder just where his beat began and her own ended. And most of all she felt his eyes on her.

  “Talk to me! Now!” he insisted. She fell to her knees—and gasped. She found herself facing the very masculinity of him. Quickly he was down with her, still insistent. “Talk to me!”

  She looked up at him. “Don’t—don’t kill me!” she whispered. And she was horrified by the other thoughts racing through her mind—that she wanted him to touch her.

  “Don’t kill you?” he asked incredulously.

  “Please.”

  “Don’t be absurd.” A confused and rueful smile touched his lips. “I’m upset, but I’m not mad enough to kill. I was kidding, you know. I’m almost positive that the Seminoles haven’t scalped a single soul since the last decade. And we were never known for skinning women alive. We were always much bigger on keeping our female prisoners captive than we were on murdering them.”

  She hadn’t expected the light, easy tone from him, not after his fury.

  Nor had she expected the soaring sensation of relief that filled her. It came to her so swiftly and completely that she lowered her head, and to her horror and absolute disgrace, she started to cry.

  “Hey!” He took her into his arms, holding her so that she cried on his shoulder.

  She was all too willing to bury her head against his neck, and he let her remain there for some time as she sobbed. Then she started to sniffle. He disengaged himself and without any awkwardness at all managed t
o rise smoothly, wrap his towel around him, then pull her to her feet.

  Ashley, her pride shattered, wiped the tears from her cheeks. He helped her, finding a napkin to dab away the last of them. She caught his hand and the napkin. “I’m all right. Thanks.”

  He nodded. He didn’t believe her. “Ready to talk yet?”

  “I…never thought that you were going to scalp me or skin me alive,” she told him.

  “Well, that’s a relief.”

  “I thought that you were going to stab me.”

  “Oh. Well, that’s better, I suppose. Murder without tribal torture?”

  His tone wasn’t so light this time. She shook her head desperately. “I saw…I saw a murder.”

  He frowned and turned away from her. “Maybe we need a little stiff drink here,” he murmured. He reached under the counter and came up with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s Black. He drew two glasses from the cupboard, poured, and handed a glass to Ashley. She managed to smile. “Have you got any ginger ale?”

  “Probably. And I’ll bet I still have ice.”

  He fixed her drink, then sipped his own straight. He leaned against the counter, watching her. “Hang on,” he told her. He set his drink down and walked off. A moment later he was back with a floor-length velour robe. He offered it to her. She started to slip it over her shoulders but he cleared his throat with a little smile. “You’re soaked underneath, and that won’t help. I hate to state the obvious, but I’ve already seen what there is to see, so you can ditch the shirt here. I’ll even turn around like a perfect gentleman. We haven’t been known for too much plunder or rape lately, either.”

  Ashley blushed furiously but he had already offered her his back. She knew that he meant what he had said and in that moment, she realized that she could trust him. She stripped away her shirt and wrapped the warm velour robe around her. It dragged on the floor and carried a pleasant scent—his soap or his after-shave, she wondered. She felt wonderfully comfortable and secure in it.

  He turned around. He was still slightly amused, and it was the way she liked him best. She loved the gleam in his eyes and the very slight curl of his lip.